The Prank War
by Amaranth121
Summary: At CXU, the biggest event of the year isn't homecoming; it's the Prank War. Houses and dormitory floors band together and battle for the title of "Best Prankers of the Year." Once, it was all fun and games, but people have started to take it too seriously. Due to a sinister plot for campus domination, Ulquiorra and Orihime are thrown together into a world of love and hurt. AU


**TITE KUBO, THE MOFFAT OF ANIME, OWNS BLEACH.**

**Also, the song in the beginning is "Justin Bieber and Spaghetti Cat" by Parry Gripp. **

**Rated T for college humor and situations (Kissies = yes. Sexies = no) and moderate swearing.**

**I only have one more chapter written for this so far, so I don't know how often I'll be updating.**

* * *

><p><em><strong>October 3, 6:30 A.M.<strong>_

"_Justin Bieber and Spaghetti Cat, flying in a helium balloon!"_

"Wah!" Tumbling out of bed, the young woman landed ungracefully on the floor. Once she gathered some semblance of her wits, she scrambled toward her phone which just so happened to be across the room.

"_Solving mysteries around the world! Make way for adventure; they will be here soon!"_

"No! Stop it, stop it, stop it!" she cried as she groped blindly for her electronic device. The fact that her long, amber hair was blocking her vision helped very little.

"_Fighting crime and having fun! Got the bad guys on the run! When one caper's over and done, a new one has begun!"_

Finally finding the noise-making machine, she clumsily tapped the screen in an effort to shut off the blaring alarm.

"_Justin Bieber and Spaghetti Cat, flying in a helium balloon! Yes, this is their cartoon!"_

"No! Shut up!" she squealed, desperate.

"_Curses! Foiled again by the meddling cat and boy!"_

At last, she switched off the alarm before the song could begin again. Still half-asleep, she slumped against the light-blue wall of the room and groaned. "Oh, banana muffins!" she muttered, using the bakery item as a cuss without batting an eyelash. "Why do classes have to start so _early_? Tatsuki!" she called despite the fact that her best friend's bunk was right above her own. "It's time to get up!"

When there was no response, the amber-haired young woman rolled her autumn eyes, pushed her hair out of her face, and walked over to their bunk bed. Eyeing the red blanket burrito her roommate had cocooned herself in over the night, she sighed and cracked her knuckles in preparation. As fast as possible, she reached up, patted her friend on the head, and stepped back into a defensive fighting stance.

Regardless of the fact that she had previously been wrapped in a comforter, the physical therapy student reacted with the reflexes of a cat. Instantaneously, she squirmed out of her blankets, leapt over the railing of the bunk-bed, landed on the floor, and threw a punch at her best friend's face with a yell.

"Hime!" Realizing whom she was about to attack, Tatsuki stopped even though her companion was prepared to block. Only mildly embarrassed, the spiky-haired woman retreated. She huffed and shook her head. "I did it again."

Yawning, Orihime waved it off and assured, "Oh, don't worry! I knew the risk."

"You should be able to wake me up without worrying about being attacked."

"I would, but even on full blast, the alarm doesn't wake you up. You just have good reflexes." The autumn-eyed woman shuffled across their room toward the kitchenette and switched on the coffee maker. While rubbing her eyes, she announced, "I'm gonna get dressed. You wanna make breakfast again?"

"Yes!" Tatsuki answered all too eagerly, dreading whatever her friend would concoct should she ever be given the chance.

"Will you put bean paste in mine? I got some in the mail from my aunt the other day," Orihime requested.

Shuddering at the thought, the elder of the pair suggested, "Why don't you add it on yourself? I don't know how much you like."

"That's true; okay!" Already, she was beginning to manifest her usual chipper personality. As Tatsuki put toast in the toaster and set the eggs on the stove, Orihime pulled out her favorite pair of jeans (the ones that made her legs look good while still being loose enough to move in) and her most absolute favorite-est short-sleeved, blue, flowery blouse. She loved it most, not just because of the cheerful flowers embroidered across the neckline or the way it flattered her figure without hugging it, but also because it matched her favorite accessories – a pair of blue flower hairpins – perfectly.

By the time she was dressed, breakfast was ready. They ate together on their dark-brown sofa, updating each other on what their days would be like. As fall semester had been going on for about a month, it was no surprise that they were already aware of each other's schedules, but it was tradition nonetheless. As pre-med students, the pair shared several classes over the course of the week, but they varied greatly in their elective choices. While Tatsuki was interested in every sport and workout known to man, Orihime's interests lay more toward art and music. Tatsuki was a great artist herself, but she preferred to "exhibit my work on my opponent's face than a piece of paper," as she had once said.

"You know what I love?" Orihime sighed as she cleaned the dishes.

Pulling her t-shirt over her head, Tatsuki huffed and questioned, "What?"

"No matter how long you're in the same university, you always meet new people. Isn't that cool? You can never get to know _everyone_, y'know? Especially in a school as big as ours!" the optimistic woman chirped.

The spiky-haired student huffed. "I'd be happy to get to know just _one_ person who wasn't a scumbag whose goal for college is to hop in the sack with as many girls as possible or ignore girls completely," she muttered.

"Oh, come on. Ichigo's not like that," Orihime pointed out, smiling at the thought of their mutual friend – and a little bit more, in her own case.

"Yeah, no, but he's not available, either!"

"Uryu?"

"He's dating the chemistry teacher's daughter again, remember? We're supposed to keep him off their back this Saturday so he can sneak her out."

"Oh, yeah!" she cheered. She grinned and sighed at the thought of the sweet, shy couple. They were just so _cute_! How could she have forgotten? "Well, what happened with Chad?"

"No. Don't even go there."

"Why not?"

"Because ever since he became the all-star wrestling champ on campus, he's been an ass, that's why!" Tatsuki spat out. Kicking her dresser, she scoffed, "I tried to set up a sparring meet with him last week, and he totally stood me up! He didn't even show his face, the coward!"

With a sweet smile, Orihime promised, "There are more fish in the sea."

"Yeah, yeah. Preach it to the choir, sister."

After spontaneously hugging her friend, the autumn-eyed roommate picked up her purple shoulder bag and headed for the door. "Bye, Tats! Feel less grumpy! Love ya!" she called back.

Within minutes, Orihime had made her way out of the girls' dorms and out into the chilling air of the courtyard. With green paths on either side of her, she made her way toward the liberal arts building halfway across campus.

Every now and then, she checked her watch as she walked just to make sure she hadn't drifted off into a daydream and lost track of time. She had done that; it wasn't very pleasant to have to explain tardiness to any of her teachers. Except maybe Professor Urahara! He was a quirky man. He never seemed particularly upset about anything, and if a student showed up late, he would ask for an explanation and then accept it no matter how lame it was. "You came at all despite the ache in your head," he had said the previous year to a student who had arrived twenty minutes before class ended because she had been hungover, "and that alone is worth something. Go help your lab partner cut up the cadaver; let me worry about the grade."

However, considering that her first class of the morning was a basics of journaling elective with Professor Kuchiki (she had taken flower-arranging with him the year previous and had loved it), she was determined not to be even a second late! He had this way of staring into one's very soul if they walked in even a half a moment after he had opened his mouth to begin lecturing. She wondered if he was that way at home, too. It would explain why her friend, Rukia, who just happened to be the professor's much younger half-sister, had this erie way of being punctual.

As she had hoped, she arrived two minutes early. Taking a seat toward the front in the large lecture hall, she unpacked her notebook, her textbook, and her favorite sparkly pink pen. In the ten seconds before 7:55, she waved cheerfully to the long-haired professor, who this day had opted to pull back his "gorgeously silky locks" (as Tatsuki had once jokingly described them) with a set of ornate hair clasps that somehow managed to look masculine. He regarded her with his icy, blue eyes. Not surprisingly, they melted only for a half a second as he nodded in acknowledgement to his sister's dear friend. As soon as the look was there, it was gone, replaced by the cold professionalism that he maintained constantly.

On the dot, the hour-and-a-half lecture class began. To some, Professor Kuchiki's voice was droning and dull, but to many others (mostly the female population of the class), he was enthralling. Analytical and strict, yes, but enthralling nonetheless. Seeing as he taught the majority of the composition classes at CXU, he had his creative, less "color between the lines or die" side (as anyone who took his flower-arranging or creative writing courses would know), but still, everyone knew that his standards were among the highest of any of the professors'.

The class ended with a half-hour pop quiz wherein Orihime and the rest of her anxious classmates were forced to handwrite an article on any class or event that came to mind. "Do not think that composing an article in praise of this class will improve your grade," the teacher warned with his finger hovering above the "start" button on the timer. "You begin... now." With a beep, the thirty-minute time limit began, and pencils and pens began to move furiously.

Orihime, having heard more than enough about it from her friends, began to write about the intense competitiveness and destruction caused by the Prank War that had started two days previously and would last all through October. Rival sororities and fraternities were the main players, but sometimes roommates and hall neighbors joined in on the fun. It was a wildly entertaining, if not somewhat dangerous time of year, but thankfully, most people adhered to the rules. For the sake of the article, she began to list them.

_1. __All teams must register with the main faculty office before the War__begins. Pranks should be reported to a faculty member in order to tally up the points and determine a winning team._

_2. If one is not part of a house, they must agree with (or at least warn) their opponent(s) that they shall engage in the prank war._

_3. The houses may __**not**__prank individual dorm rooms. If more than five dorm rooms have created a team, the houses may consider them fair targets._

_4. Pranks on faculty are strictly prohibited._

_5. Faculty are prohibited from assisting student teams in planning or executing pranks._

_6. __Pranks shall not be carried out inside any of the class buildings._

_7. A food fight does __**not**__count as a prank and shall disqualify the prank team which instigated it from the tournament._

_8. Teams may form alliances in order to diminish another team's power, but once the team has dropped from the race, the alliance must be disbanded._

_9. If a team drops out, further pranks on that team will not be tallied in the final scores._

_10. Any repairs needed on the dorm or house properties due to a prank will be paid for the party responsible._

_11. The Prank War will begin at 12:01 A.M. on October 1 and end at 11:59 P.M. on October 31. Scores will be announced and prizes given at 6 P.M. in the dining hall on November 1._

_12. If any injuries requiring hospitalization are inflicted during the tournament, the one responsible will __**not**__be immune to lawsuit despite the situation in which the injuries occurred. Clorox University is not legally culpable for any minor or major injuries suffered due to the Prank War._

There were a few teams who fudged the rules: mostly the houses. They would prank a single dorm room and not report it; they would set up traps early in the morning in the doorways of the main buildings to catch students "outside" as they entered; some would begin earlier than they were supposed to or end later; or they would cause minor damages and blame them on someone else because to the ones who broke the rules, the prank itself was more important than the points.

By the time the class was done, Orihime was highly satisfied with her exposé on the Prank War. After checking it for spelling and grammar errors, she passed it down to the student in front of her who was making a neat pile for their teacher.

Professor Kuchiki dismissed them at precisely 9:25, and the students filed out of the room like a long row of multicolored ants. As she always did, the amber-haired girl waved back at the tutor, not much bothered by the fact that he didn't notice her parting gesture.

With two hours to spare before her next class began, Orihime made her way toward the building's exit. She figured she would go the café, get something warm and caffeinated to drink, and spend a good while studying. After all, she had midterms coming up, and if she didn't get an overall score in the ninety-percent range, her benefactors would be rather unhappy with her.

She was musing over such things as she wandered down the hall, too lost in her own thoughts to notice the group of boys racing down the hallway until they were speeding past her.

"Move your asses!" the one up front, a muscular man with shockingly _blue_ hair, called back. He was followed closely by a freakishly tall man; a shorter, blond student; a young male with dark hair and a braid; and a boy with light, nearly white blond hair and a crooked grin. "Oi! Ulquiorra! Bring up the rear!"

_Ulquiorra?_ Where had she heard that name? The autumn-eyed woman turned just in time to meet the gaze of a pair emerald eyes as the owner nearly crashed into her. Gracefully, he sidestepped out of harm's way, but Orihime (being Orihime) stepped toward him to ask what was going on at the wrong time and ended up tripping over his foot despite his efforts.

Collapsing to the floor, she barely caught herself on her palms which began to sting from their collision with the polished linoleum tiles. She heard the man, who had stopped as he saw her fall, curse under his breath. After hesitating for a split second, he crouched at her side and questioned, "Are you injured, woman?"

His voice was like an avalanche in the distance: thick, deep, and rumbling, but unthreatening and quiet. Partially in shock, Orihime looked up into his incredible viridian eyes and wondered if they were colored contacts. In naught but a moment, she took in the whole of his appearance. His skin was pale – so much so, she contemplated that he might have been an eskimo transfer student (Tatsuki had told her that they didn't get much sun in the arctic since they covered up all the time). His obsidian hair was messy, falling unattended over his face as he looked down at her, and his dark eyebrows were thick and knit closer just slightly in either concern or frustration (she couldn't tell). His black slacks, white button-up, and black tie were nothing special, but she did notice how fit and lithe they made him look. Judging by his skilled dodge earlier, the clothes really did fit the man.

What really caught her attention (aside from his unbelievable eyes) were his hands. As he reached out to help her up, she noted the slender, but not spindly shape of his fingers and the slight callouses that covered them. He had neat, clean fingernails that seemed to have a sheen in the fluorescent glow of the hall lights. His hands were intriguing; she felt as if she could spend hours memorizing every detail and never tire.

Deciding after a few seconds that her time to be stunned was over, she gratefully took his hand and let him help her to her feet. He pulled away as soon as he was sure she wouldn't topple over, but his touch lingered, causing her to blush her own, impressive shade of crimson. "I... um," she stammered. Avoiding his focused gaze and finding that it eased her nerves, she attempted, "I-I'm sorry for-!"

"Cifer! I'm gonna kill you, Cifer!"

Without warning, the dark-haired man adjusted his black messenger bag on his shoulder and grabbed her hand once more. "Come with me, woman," he instructed.

Reduced once more to a panicking, babbling mess, Orihime yelped, "What? Why?"

"This is not a negotiation; it is an order. Come with me," he demanded in that deep, unwavering voice of his. At that, he began to run, giving her no choice but to race along with him.

The angry voice that had called out – which sounded oddly familiar – continued to shout after them even as they rushed by the other students. "Get back here, Cifer, so I can wring your skinny neck!"

"He sounds angry," the amber-haired woman remarked breathlessly. She had to admit; she had no idea what was going on, but the whole situation was somewhat exhilarating.

"Because he is," the emerald-eyed student responded.

"Cifer!"

Squeaking in alarm, Orihime warned, "He sounds like he's getting closer!"

"Because he _is_," the pale man emphasized, keeping his gaze ahead of them.

As they turned a corner, the young woman espied the door for the janitor's closet. Planting her feet and stopping them both (much to his surprise, no less), she opened the door and whispered, "In here! Hurry!"

Joining her with a long stride, he closed the door quickly yet somehow silently. Moments later, the sound of multiple sets of pounding footsteps passed by them. Finally, only the sound of their thin breathing remained.

"They're gone," Orihime peeped. Sighing, she covered her mouth with her hands to stifle a relieved laugh. "Oh, that was scary for a minute there."

He "hm"-ed in response. He waited for another few seconds just to ensure their pursuers had gone before attempting to open the door. The handle refused to budge. He tried again, but all he received was a _clack_ sound in protest. "The door is locked," he announced. He was mildly perturbed, but he wouldn't admit it.

"What?!" Rushing forward, the amber-haired undergrad took her turn jiggling the handle. Frustrated, she protested, "But it opened from the outside!"

"Perhaps it is meant to remain locked on the inside for anyone who does not have a key," Ulquiorra mused. Thinking further, he added, "Or perhaps one of us accidentally bumped it in some way that activated the lock." He retreated, leaving her by the door while he leaned against the back wall and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Either way, we are stuck here for about an hour. I suppose it is a good thing, since I prefer not to rush a conversation. The janitor will begin to make his morning rounds in this building at that time."

With her hand still on the door, Orihime looked in the direction of his voice. It was far too dark to see him, but she could still hear him breathing, so she knew he was maintaining his distance, which calmed her significantly. Contemplating what he had said, she inquired nervously, "How do you know that?"

"It was reconnaissance for the War," he answered. "Merely a detail necessary to the strategy involved."

Suddenly understanding, the amber-haired woman smiled. "Ooh! _That's_ why they were chasing you!" When he didn't respond, she slid to the floor and sat with her back against the door. Intrigued, she questioned, "What's your team's name? We have one on our dorm floor; they call themselves the Sparkly Orange Monkeys."

He was clearly unamused. "Foolishness," he muttered with a hint of disdain. After a pause, he responded to her question. "I am a member of Las Noches."

Awed, she gasped, "No way! You're part of a fraternity? That's so cool!" Grinning even though he couldn't see it, she pressed with interest, "Who did you get?"

"Karakura." There was no change in the cool of his voice, but she sensed from the increasing weight of the atmosphere that he was rather indignant. "The trash have allied themselves with Seireitei and the Shinigami Women's Association Sorority in order to wipe us out of the battle early on, assuming that they are more evenly matched with one another than they are alone against us. Having heard wind of their alliance, we made a preemptive strike," he explained.

Orihime did laugh this time – boisterously, in fact. "You're taking this so seriously!" she remarked, highly amused by the absolute resolve of his tone. "Isn't it just a game?"

"It is," Ulquiorra admitted. Not relenting in his grave speech, he persisted, "Yet Las Noches, Karakura, Seireitei, and SWAS are evenly matched in academics, sports, and popularity. The only way to prove our ultimate superiority is by winning the War. I do not expect you to understand."

"Oh, I do! It's kind of like the ancient clans of Europe; always fighting one another, but never really gaining anything aside from little pieces of land or hunting rights," she shrugged. As an afterthought, she giggled, "Besides, I hear about it often enough from my foster-brother."

"Oh?" At that, her fellow prisoner in the closet seemed mildly intrigued. "And who would that be?"

Smiling proudly, she divulged, "Ichigo Kurosaki!"

There was silence. She could feel his eyes glaring at her in the dark, and even though she knew he couldn't see her, it made her self-conscious nonetheless. What could she have said that would have stunned or angered (she couldn't tell which it was, especially in the pitch blackness) him so much?

"Kurosaki is your brother?" he questioned at length. Despite the remaining control in his voice, his disbelief was apparent enough.

"_Foster_-brother," Orihime corrected out of habit. When the pale man said nothing more, she sighed and continued quietly, "My brother, who had been raising me, died when I was twelve. I have an aunt and uncle, but they didn't want to raise me, so I was sent into foster care. After two years jumping around, the Kurosaki family took me in. They sent me to high school and treated me like I was one of their real kids. After high school, my aunt decided she felt guilty, so they promised to pay for my college education, and, y'know, here I am. They still didn't want me in their home, though, so I still consider the Kurosakis as my family."

Still, Ulquiorra was silent. Embarrassed, she laughed nervously and offered, "I'm sorry. That was probably more than you ever wanted to know."

"Do not apologize. It is not that I have not said anything because I am irritated with you. I..." He paused again, either thinking of the right word or struggling to say it. At last, he finished, "I sympathize with your past. You could have explained with less detail, yes, but that is of no consequence. I am simply waiting for you to realize the irony of this situation."

On some level, his bluntness comforted her. On an entire other level, it humiliated her to no end. Conflicted, she pulled her legs up to her chest and sighed. What did he mean "irony"? What was so ironic about being chased by someone and getting locked in a closet with one of her foster-brother's rivals?

It struck her like lightning. The person chasing them had been Ichigo.

Instantly, Orihime began to laugh hysterically. "A-are you _serious_?!" she snorted. She doubled on the floor, on the verge of hyperventilation. "This is so ridiculous! I'm stuck in a janitor's closet with a guy my foster-brother _hates_ after I ran away from him in the first place!" She wheezed when she inhaled, but that wasn't abnormal; she had these laugh attacks often (which Tatsuki could attest to).

"Now you see my point." When she continued to laugh, he felt an inkling of concern. Would she stop any time soon? She was going to pass out if she didn't take a proper breath. "Woman, breathe."

"Bah! Breathing's boring!" she guffawed.

He raised an eyebrow. "Sherlock."

Snapping out of it, Orihime gasped. "Oh my goodness, you watch that show too?!"

"Of course. I find Holmes' analytical method and attention to detail intriguing, if not slightly overstated for the sake of fictional entertainment," the emerald-eyed man reasoned.

"Have you seen the third season yet?!"

"Twice."

"Isn't it _amazing_?! Oh, Moffat is a cruel genius!"

"Indeed. He is a master at toying with human emotion."

"And _John!_ My goodness, that poor man! If he was real, I would-I would hug him, and squeeze him, and tell him I love his cute mustache, and-and – ah!" she squealed joyously.

Ulquiorra paused. After a moment, he retorted, "Actually, that mustache was rather unsightly."

"It was _not_!"

"I believe your conception of beauty may be slightly askew in this matter."

"It was _adorable_!"

"It was hideous, woman."

"Orihime."

Again, he hesitated. "What?"

"My name. Orihime Inoue," she clarified. "And, from all the yelling, I gather that you're Ulquiorra Cifer."

"Yes. I am."

"I recognize your name. My foster-brother hates you."

"I would say the feeling is mutual, but I consider him unworthy even of contempt," Ulquiorra stated, not censoring a single word (he rarely did).

To his surprise, Orihime giggled. "You wouldn't be the first. He can be a jerk. Not just because he's got that stubborn, rebellious thing going for him, but also because he has an insufferable hero-complex," she remarked, shaking her head. Honestly, but still somewhat fondly, she expounded, "He always thinks that everyone else's problem is his to solve. It's sweet, but sometimes it's... suffocating."

Ulquiorra was silent, for in all sincerity, he had to agree. Kurosaki was fiercely loyal to his friends, a good student, a decent fighter, and a very real pain in the ass. She seemed to be aware of that despite their connection, and he couldn't help but admire her candor.

Time passed, and all the while, they made idle conversation. While he sometimes refused to answer her questions because of the sheer uselessness of them, she never seemed offended. Instead, she picked herself up and asked another question or switched to a different subject. He marveled at her persistence. Eventually, he resigned himself to sitting back and enjoying the sound of her melodic, feminine voice. She could talk for eternity, but the more he listened, the less he cared.

As for Orihime, the more she talked, the more comfortable she became. With that comfort, she became more attuned to his responses even in the pitch darkness. His only indications of laughter were short, quiet exhales. His moods were tangible, even though she knew they would not show on his face or in his voice. She knew when she had spent too much time going around in circles on one topic, she would switch to another that would interest him all over again.

During one of his monotone responses to one of her many, many questions, she closed her eyes and sighed. With that deep inhale through her nose, though, she realized one rather startling truth: he smelled _really_ good. The thought made her blush, but it didn't stop her mind from analyzing the scent that suddenly seemed to be all around her. It was like peppermint, pine, rain, and _man_ all at once. It wasn't overwhelming, but now that she had noticed it, it wasn't hard to pinpoint. She briefly wondered if it was a cologne or if that was just the way he smelled in general. Maybe it was a little bit of both, but in any case, he smelled really, really, _really_ good.

"Pardon me?"

Blushing so deeply she wondered if her face was glowing in the dark, she stammered, "W-what? N-nothing! I-I didn't say anything!"

"Yes, you did. Right in the middle of my sentence, I may add," he pointed out, positive that he hadn't just been hearing things. "What was it?"

"Um... um... I-I was just saying that this has been really good! B-better than I expected!" she bluffed. Calming herself, she continued sincerely, "I'm really enjoying getting to know you, y'know? You're not nearly as mean as Ichigo makes you out to be. I'm not scared at all!"

This time, the silence was confused and tense. It had been curious, hesitant, and irritated before, but this time, it was perplexed, stiff, and even a little bit dark.

And finally, he spoke, and she felt as if that avalanche of his voice was crashing down on her head with the sheer power of the simplest word.

"Why?"

At that moment, the door swung out, and, having braced her back against it, Orihime fell backward. Flailing, she toppled onto her back and looked up at the stunned janitor. "Oh! Hi! Sorry; we got locked in here about an hour ago! Thanks!" she chirped, all the while picking herself up and fixing her hair (and checking for her precious hairpins in the process).

The old man stammered, obviously suspicious but unable to form the words. Ulquiorra, in the meantime, had made his way to his feet. Without an effort to explain, he maneuvered around the elderly janitor and into the hallway, still maintaining his distance from the young woman.

He had noticed before, as very little detail escaped his gaze, but again, he marveled at the vibrancy of her amber hair. Though it was a bit messy despite her efforts, it fell in long, silky waves that cascaded down her back in a waterfall of sunset glory. As her hand threaded through it in an effort so smooth it down, he followed the path of her delicate fingers with diligence. How would those brilliant strands look against the pale color of his own hand?

Ulquiorra contemplated smacking himself. That wasn't the sort of thought he thought. It was as if Grimmjow had wormed his way into his brain and started whispering stupid things to poison his mind.

"Because I trust you."

His emerald eyes blinked. Turning to the slightly shorter student, he considered her words before questioning skeptically, "Why? What reason have I given you to trust me?"

Again, he was staring at her with such intensity that she couldn't help but blush. She bit her lip, thinking deeply while completely unaware that his heavy gaze had flickered to her mouth for a lingering moment. By the time she had her answer, he was again focused on her autumn eyes.

"You helped me up," Orihime began. Smiling and shrugging, she explained, "You could have just left me on the floor and kept running, but you stayed. And when Ichigo was coming after us, you wanted to help me escape with you. When we got locked in the closet, you didn't get angry at me for getting us stuck in there in the first place, and you didn't..." She turned crimson, hesitated, and stammered, "Y-you didn't... y'know... _do_ _anything_ while we were in there."

"I am not some disgusting trash, woman. I would not," Ulquiorra pointed out. He wasn't offended at her presumption; it had been made many times before due to the characteristics of many of his housemates. Nonetheless, he found himself compelled to assure her of the fact that he would never have taken advantage of the situation in such a derogatory fashion.

"I know," the pre-med student confirmed. Her smile turned to a grin as she professed, "And so I trust you. It's a bunch of small, stupid reasons, I know, but if you never trust anyone out of fear of being betrayed, how can you ever make friends? The only way to grow a friendship is through a little sunshine, a little rain, and a little trust," she giggled. Continuing her metaphor, she joked cheerfully, "I couldn't have hoped for a better way to plant a seed today. I trust you because I want it to grow up into a big, bloomy, beautiful flower!"

When he stared at her, one thick black eyebrow raised in skepticism, she felt herself sink a little bit. Drooping, she ventured, "Are you okay with that?"

As he always did when making a decision, Ulquiorra paused and thought. He honestly couldn't tell if this woman was incredibly naïve or fantastically brave. She was clearly frightened of his rejection – no. No, this wasn't fear. It was similar, but less consuming. Anxiousness, perhaps? Nervousness? Uncertainty? He couldn't tell, but it was intriguing – perhaps even captivating. His eyes scanned her face for any sign of deceit, but he found none.

At last, he answered. "Yes."

"Oh, cool!" Orihime cheered, bouncing on her toes. Her autumn eyes shone with joy as she asked eagerly, "So, what's your major?"

"I have a double major in philosophy and psychology with a minor in music theory."

"What?! How do you have time to _live_?!"

"I usually do not."

"Geez!" she marveled, imagining all the _work_ involved with getting not one, not two, but _three_ degrees. "And here I am just being a pre-med student! I only have this year left, but then I want to go on to become a trauma surgeon."

"Why?"

He liked that word, didn't he? He said it so dispassionately as if it didn't really matter if she replied or not, but even though the thought of it made her sad, she chose to answer.

"Um," she hemmed, avoiding his gaze and tucking her hair behind her ear, "my brother. He died in a car accident. A trauma surgeon spent ten hours trying to save his life, but... yeah."

Ulquiorra paused. "I see." After a moment of silence, he checked his black watch and asked, "When is your next class?"

"Ten-thirty," she answered, curious. "Why?"

Again, he hesitated before continuing straightforwardly, "Allow me to buy you coffee. I was responsible the situation in itself; it's the least I can do."

Orihime responded immediately. "Okay! Sounds great!"

With that, she twirled around and bounced toward the exit, the emerald-eyed man at her heels.

–

_**October 3, 10:58 A.M.**_

Ulquiorra opened the large front door with his right hand, a half-full cup of coffee in his left. The large, pristinely white front room welcomed him, but he was fully aware of the ambush that surely awaited him as he walked through the archway on the left side of the foyer. Inside were several modern-styled black couches and a massive television, along with the majority of his housemates.

At the pale man's entrance, the burly, blue-haired man jumped to his feet. "Ulquiorra!" he roared, pointing an accusing finger at the newcomer. "What the hell happened?! You were supposed to be right behind us!"

Not at all frightened by the volume of his sometimes-best friend's voice, Ulquiorra shrugged, dug his idle hand into his pocket, and stated, "Change of plans, Grimmjow."

As the emerald-eyed male took a drink of his cooling coffee, Grimmjow stared at him, confused. "They didn't catch you?"

"No. They did not."

"Hell yes!" the brawny man cackled. High-fiving the tall, lanky man beside him, he shouted, "Six points for Las Noches! I gotta tell ya, Nnoitra, plugging up their plumbing with bubble gum? Genius, y'son of a bitch – genius! So worth whatever the repair costs! Take that, y'orange-haired bastard!" he gloated.

The celebratory mood ceased rather suddenly. Pivoting on his heel, the spiky-haired student questioned, "Wait just a damn second. If Karakura didn't catch you, then what the frick were you doing for two hours?!"

Holding up the black paper cup emblazoned with the CXU logo in red, white, and blue letters, Ulquiorra replied simply, "Coffee."

"For two hours?!" Grimmjow scoffed. With three strides forward, he invaded his friend's personal space and towered over him. "Where were you, Ulquiorra?" he interrogated, a growl rumbling in his chest as he spoke.

The raven-haired man knew were going to taunt him mercilessly if he told them, but if he didn't tell them, he could expect incessant badgering until he did. Deciding that the momentary embarrassment was the better option, he answered, "I was locked in the janitor's closet in the liberal arts building. The woman suggested we hide there, but the door locked behind us."

"The woman?!" The blunette gawked at the shorter male in disbelief. Snorting, he questioned skeptically, "Yeah, right, jackass! What woman?!"

"Orihime Inoue."

At that, the jaws of all his housemates dropped simultaneously. With wide eyes, they all stared at him in shock. Had a pin been dropped, it would have been as loud as an atomic bomb.

"No," Nnoitra began.

Tesla joined in, "Freakin'."

"Way," Szayel finished.

Ulquiorra arched an eyebrow in question and turned to the blue-haired man who had yet to form a sentence. "What reason would I have to lie?" he inquired.

Grimmjow snapped. "No freaking way in hell did you get stuck in a closet with Kurosaki's hottie sister!" he rebuked. "No way in freakin' hell!"

At that, the philosophy major's eyebrows furrowed in confusion and mild irritation. "Am I the only one who did not know that she is his foster-sister?" he queried.

"Yeah, pretty much, dumbass!" Nnoitra laughed, throwing back his head and chortling uproariously.

Adjusting his glasses, Szayel taunted, "Ulquiorra doesn't pay attention to girls. All the more evidence to support my hypothesis that he is homosexual."

Subtly, Ulquiorra rolled his emerald eyes. He dismissed the remark, regarding it as unworthy of response because they all knew it wasn't true. Returning his gaze to his best friend, he assuaged, "I assure you, I am telling the truth. The janitor came by on time, and as an apology for involving her in our battle, I bought her coffee before her next class began. Karakura did not catch me, and," he added firmly, "before you ask, nothing happened."

Grinning toothily, Grimmjow teased, "Oh, yeah? Then what did you do for an hour locked in a closet with that goddess, huh?"

"We talked," the pale man stated. "Surprisingly, she is an intriguing conversationalist."

"Screw that. What did you actually do?"

"We talked, Grimmjow. If you cannot get that through your puny brain, then I suppose it is best that I stop trying to shove it in there," Ulquiorra retorted coldly.

The spiky-haired man growled, his azure eyes sparking furiously. "Why, you little son of a-!"

"Enough, boys."

Seething, Grimmjow glared at the brown-haired man who had spoken. He did not protest, but he lingered for a moment in defiance before taking a few steps back. "Stuck-up asshole," he hissed under his breath.

"Moron," Ulquiorra whispered back.

"I hate to interrupt this lovely banter," the forty-some-year-old man proceeded in a falsely pleasant tone that clearly showed he was lying, "but this development brings up an angle we had not previously anticipated."

"What the hell are you talkin' about, Aizen?" the burly student huffed impatiently.

"My, that's not a very nice tone to use with your favorite professor, now is it, Grimmjow?" Removing his square glasses and brushing back his hair, the unctuous man reminded, "Perhaps you've forgotten whose planning made it possible for Las Noches to win the War last year; perhaps you've forgotten the risk I am taking by helping you. That means I am in charge. Remember now?" The narrowing of his umber eyes blatantly told his underling that there was only one acceptable response to that question.

Grimmjow's jaw locked in rage, but he forced himself to nod. As much as he hated the psychology professor's smug attitude and condescending tone, they needed him, and he couldn't afford to give into his urges and punch in his teeth.

"Good. Now," Aizen resumed, leaning back in the white wingback chair, "Ulquiorra. Why don't you take a seat and share your experience with your brothers, hm?"

Doing as he was bid, Ulquiorra sat on the black couch across from his blue-haired frienemy. "There is very little to tell," he began. Never once showing any weakness or emotion as he recounted his memories, he narrated the events of that morning with perfect clarity. Now and then, Aizen would ask a question about what she had said specifically, and obediently, Ulquiorra would answer. With every minute that passed, the brown-haired male looked more and more attentive, the gears in his head obviously working.

"And you say she is intent on pursuing a relationship with you?" the professor questioned as his student's story came to a close.

"Platonically, yes," the emerald-eyed young man clarified. "She was specific in that matter."

"Ah, but," Aizen mused with a conniving light in his eyes, "how easily do such platonic sentiments evolve into romantic feelings, hm? Especially in the case of a naïve girl with such a past as hers."

Since Ulquiorra had not mentioned her history out of respect, he found himself wondering aloud, "How did you come by that information, Professor Aizen?"

With a short, rather patronizing chuckle, the cunning man enlightened, "As you said, Ulquiorra, I am a professor. I have access to all my students' records, and as a professor of psychology, it is my duty to become familiar with my pupils' backgrounds and mental states.

"Hers," he continued as he idly raked his fingers through his hair, "suggests that she is insecure yet far too trusting. She fears rejection, but as it is a rather familiar tune in the symphony of her life, she has learned to live with the danger and chosen not to close herself to further risk – a foolish, if not adorably innocent viewpoint, mind you.

"Yet, beneath that childish exterior, there lies a woman who yearns for companionship and positive attention which you," he directed with a meaningful glance at the pale undergrad, "my dear Ulquiorra, are going to give her."

Ignoring the approving grins of his housemates, Ulquiorra questioned, "What purpose would that serve? She is not part of a house; she is not part of a team. She is not even involved in the War whatsoever."

"No, she is not. But," Aizen smirked, "her brother is, and so are the other friends she has in Karakura, Seireitei, and SWAS. Undoubtedly, at least Kurosaki will be distracted by this development, and we can use that to our advantage."

When the younger man's emerald eyes narrowed, a look of intrigue crossed the devious professor's countenance. "Oh, do you object?" he asked with a hint of scorn in his cool, calm voice. "How sweet. The emotionless, unflappable Ulquiorra Cifer moved with concern over the feelings of one insignificant pawn."

"Her emotions do not concern me," Ulquiorra replied resolutely. "I merely do not see why it is necessary to exploit her for the sake of this game."

Aizen stood, and his imposing presence doubled in intensity. His indifferent expression was tinged with disappointment as he admonished, "Have you learned nothing in my classes? The natural instinct of humanity is to use and to be used. Feelings of betrayal are merely a misconstrued response. While it is rationalized that the betrayal comes from being used, in truth it comes from the end of that manipulation. The question every man must ask himself is this: Will I use others for my benefit, or will I be used and left behind?"

Stepping toward his student and donning a paternal smile, Aizen questioned, "Which will it be, Ulquiorra? I cannot force you, but I will remind you that if you refuse, you could possibly have denied your brothers a great chance at victory."

Immediately, Ulquiorra's eyes met those of his teacher. Unwavering, he answered, "Very well. How shall I begin?"

"Did she give you her number?"

Not breaking from the gaze of his professor, the raven-haired male withdrew his smartphone from his pocket and opened his contacts. With no more than a glance at the phone, he found her name. Beside it was a picture of her ridiculous grin and crossed autumn eyes which he had taken discreetly while she was trying to see the whipped cream which she had gotten on the tip of her small, feminine nose. In the presence of his fellows, he suppressed the amusement which teased the corners of his consciousness.

Expressionless, he showed it to his tutor. "Of course," he responded.

"In that case, my dear Ulquiorra," Aizen chuckled smugly with that dark light in his umber eyes, "you've already begun."

* * *

><p><strong>Love, Amaranth<strong>


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